Stone Walls
by Shinigami8419
Summary: It is the end of the Battle of Helms Deep. Legolas is suffering in his solitude and fears it. Eomer is contemplating all that it means to be human. SLASH EomerLegolas. This is my first LOTR fic. please be gentle! Sorry for the delay again, CHAPTER 7 UP
1. Chapter 1

Stone Walls  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Eomer's breath was coming in ragged shudders. They had won. Against everything, against evil, against fate; they had won. And yet the victory was so close to defeat that is left a bitter taste on his tongue.   
  
The smell of blood was too heavy in the air. He was a hardened warrior, familiar with the ways and consequences of combat and no man would have called him cowardly, but even his soul shuddered at the sight of so much death.  
  
There was, however, much rejoicing among the people of Rohan. He stood beside his faithful, sweat-soaked and blood-flecked steed, absently massaging its huge muscles whilst he waited for his own aching body to cool. The women and children were pouring forth from the caves, embracing their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands. King Theoden stood on high atop the Deeping Wall, surveying all with a grand smile, only vaguely tinged with sadness. Eomer had much to desire to talk with his uncle, but he wished the stresses of battle to ease from his muscles first.  
  
He was not given much of a chance to calm his mind, however, since Rohirrm, soldiers, townsfolk and all manner of survivors of the terrible battle were bestowing upon him such a crescendo of praise and thanks that he was barely given a second between them.  
  
"Lord Eomer - " A familiar voice.  
  
Eomer turned. "Aragorn," he inclined his head in respect. "I have come to understand that it is you we have to thank for the survival of so many."  
  
Aragorn studied the younger man with eyes that were impossibly deep and wise for a mortal. "'Twas nothing more than you would have done yourself, Prince Eomer."  
  
"Possibly not," said Eomer, keeping his expression guarded. "But nonetheless…"  
  
There was a longish pause when their gazes were locked. Eomer did not understand what to make of this man. He seemed to exude a quiet confidence and an unquestionable authority that demanded respect and yet the same time, something in the set of his lips and the tilt of his brow communicated the human compassion and receptiveness that one finds in the closest of comrades.  
  
"We must thank each other then," Aragorn said quietly.  
  
It was strange that Aragorn looked like a king despite the layer of mud and blood that matted his hair, smudged his face and rimed his clothes. "Yes we must," Eomer replied, removing his helmet and aware of a lightening in the tone of their conversation. He held out his hand. "Friend."  
  
Aragorn took a firm grip on the hand. "You will forever find a comrade in me, Prince of Rohan."  
  
"And you in I, you need only to call for the horse and the rider. The Rohirrm will always answer you. We owe you much."   
  
Aragorn inclined his head. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was enough to tell Eomer that a trust and a friendship had been a established, the kind of which it would take much to break.  
  
Aragorn left and disappeared into the exhausted crowds of people that were milling, embracing and lamenting.   
  
"Would there would be much time before we must witness such a massacre again," Eomer said to his horse as he relieved it of its tack. The horse gave a grateful shake of its hide. "Go, brave one," he said, patting its side. "Go, find grass. We have a little time to spare, for now." The horse trotted away and Eomer did not glance after it.   
  
He could see Gandalf the White, like a star shining in the shadowy valley, sharing a discourse with the ever-sombre Aragorn. Many incredible people had aided in the victory of Helm's Deep. And yet even this collection of wizards and kings had not been enough to destroy the enemy. He knew that they had merely had a taste of what the future might hold.  
  
Tired of such morbid thoughts, he looked around, seeking a sanctuary of silence. But there were people everywhere. Too much desperate relief and desperate despair. He wanted to get away.   
  
"The Hornburg…" He thought. No one would be atop the Hornburg tower. He slipped up the causeway and in through the gate, avoiding all, at least for now.  
  
He was correct. The amount of people thinned considerably as he drew to the steps of the Hornburg. The sound of his boots upon the stone steps was like the hollow tapping of a hammer against his soul.   
  
He emerged at the top as though emerging into the sky. So high up, the noise from the battlefield barely filtered up to him. He breathed deep the clean air and shut his eyes, allowing the luxury of nothingness to penetrate his mind for the briefest of moments.  
  
It took a lot to startle Eomer, son of Eomund, but that tiniest scrape of a booted foot against the stone of the tower top had his spine quivering and his heart leaping into his throat.  
  
"Forgive me, Prince Eomer," the voice was smooth and ageless, devoid of and yet loaded with emotion. "I had no intention of startling you."  
  
Eomer blinked and calmed his racing pulse. "No forgiveness is necessary, good Elf," he replied. "If there is any fault, it is mine. I was not expecting anyone else to be up here."  
  
There was silence for a moment. He fixed his eyes upon the battlefield below, unwilling and slightly afraid to meet the eyes of this strange being. His heart was buzzing in the oddest manner. It was indeed an exciting and daunting experience to be so close to one of the fair folk. He has seen few and spoke to less in his time. All he had were tales of magic, wonder, trickery and heartbreak. The prospect of meeting one in such close quarters had Eomer ambivalent to the extent of which he was considering fleeing. But no. He did not run from a hoard of orcs, he could overcome fear and conquer this experience also. He had come up here to escape his fears for the time being and escape he would do.  
  
And yet…  
  
Eomer glanced at the elf from the corner of his eye. The elf seemed to have already forgotten he was there. Languid blue eyes gazed off into the distance as though seeing and absorbing everything up to the horizon. A slight breeze tugged reverently at golden tresses and such a stillness stole over him that he looked carved from the purest marble.  
  
"Your intervention saved all our lives, Rider of the Mark." His voice was far from loud but the silence had been so complete that his speech made Eomer's heart skip once again.  
  
"The fate of my people is a cause worthy enough to die for," Eomer intoned, not looking at the elf. "I had expected to die today. But the battle is won and now we must all live to face the future."  
  
"You have regrets?" There was no judgement in the tone.  
  
"None. Only fears."  
  
"Tis a fearful time for all, Eomer, King Sister-Son."  
  
Eomer regarded the elf carefully. He was sat on the tower wall as solidly and balanced as though he was not aware of the height from which even he would surly be killed if he fell. His eyes had not moved from their wandering scrutiny of the horizon. He seemed so separate, his years and knowledge detaching him as though he existed on another plane of existence.  
  
"Fears even for you, Sir Elf?"  
  
"Indeed fears for me." He brought his eyes to Eomer's face and Eomer felt his breath catch as he had the first time he had lain eyes upon him upon the fields of Rohan, though he was as careful to conceal it now as then. So beautiful, thought Eomer and yet the elf was beyond such concepts as beauty. He seemed to be an embodiment of the intangible essence of all the misty dreams, fog-wreathed forests and subtlest scents of the wildest flowers.   
  
Elves were fickle creatures in myth a tale, enchanting but traitorous and cold. However, Eomer received no such impressions at that moment, just an almost overwhelming sense of insignificance. What was a man to a being such as this? A man's life was emotional, hot, hungry, exhausting and ever so brief. He felt he could never possibly understand what it must mean to exist compared to such a creature as this.  
  
Legolas got to his feet in such a lithe, fluid motion it was almost eerie. "Fear blackens the heart of most people of Middle Earth, Prince Eomer. But there is hope too. With warriors such as yourself ready to fight for freedom, that fear may become less solid and the hope brighter."  
  
"I fear it will take more than what we can ever hope for to defeat the armies of Sauron," Eomer said bitterly.  
  
"So morbid, Rider of Rohan?"  
  
"What are our struggles to the elves at any rate?" He regretted the outburst immediately. But Legolas did not seem offended. Then again, Eomer found it impossible to discern his expression.  
  
"You think us so different to yourselves?" Those impossible eyes…  
  
"Are you not?"  
  
Legolas stepped forward suddenly and clasped Eomer's hand in both his own. Eomer was startled and slightly frightened since he could feel the strength in those hands and yet still nothing from the eyes. Legolas held their hands against Eomer's chest and for a while they just stood there, Eomer trying to retrieve any sort of clue from the Elf's face.  
  
"You feel your heartbeat do you not?" the elf whispered at last.  
  
Eomer nodded.  
  
"As do I. Do you believe that were I to press our hands thus against my own breast, that you would feel naught?"  
  
"Of course not," said Eomer, bemused beyond belief. "I don't claim to be over endowed in knowledge of elves but I believe I have enough to know that one that lives has a heart that beats."  
  
"Indeed." Legolas did not remove his hands. They felt cool and smooth, with the merest hint of strength, although they were satin sewn tenderly around iron. "Though I would be the first to say our peoples differ in manner and looks, our hearts beat alike."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
Legolas tilted his head on one side. A delicate braid shift amidst its bed of golden silk and the eyelashes that framed his oceanic eyes fluttered to give them almost and expression of curiosity.  
  
"Men seem to take much comfort in separation, in suffering on their own. I have met many men and all seem too enamoured, enchanted overwhelmed or even fearful to try and involve my kind. Would that both or people simply took a little time to listen to each other, we would both discover much that is now mystery. It is only through union we can ever hope to survive."  
  
"I do not wish to suffer alone," said Eomer, voice shivering slightly from the contact.   
  
Legolas did not seem to notice the quaver. "Nor does anyone, willingly. A distance between oneself and what is strange or different is instinct, and yet it is what plants the seeds for fear and distrust. But if this is overcome…we triumph."  
  
Legolas released his hand. Eomer's hand felt cold from the loss of contact. "I understand many of your people died here with us today," Eomer said quietly. "I believed the unions you speak of may have been achieved on this very wall yester eve."  
  
"And it was a beauty to see. Would that so much horror had not followed…"  
  
"Do you still hold us at a distance, elf?" Eomer asked, absently massaging his hand and shamefully wishing he could touch that skin again. "Have you overcome this distrust of which you speak? I believe so, since I do not believe elves offer up physical contact lightly…"  
  
Legolas's eyes seemed the slightest bit sharp as they returned to him. Eomer feared he may have caused offence, but said nothing, still wanting an answer to his question.  
  
"I believe I rid myself of my barriers sometime ago. Not many have been on such an undertaking as I…the Fellowship was its namesake and distance was impossible. Men, Elf dwarf and halflings bonded strongly for perhaps the first time in history. I have come to understand the errors of the past."  
  
But despite these words, Eomer found it impossible to imagine that such a being as this had travelled, slept and ate with men and dwarves. It seemed almost perverse. He found it impossible, though he longed for it so, to bring this elegant and mystical and so old being closer to him. He realised all at once how utterly naive he was, despite his years of blood and pain.  
  
"Do you take offence at distance?" Eomer asked. There was another silence, not entirely comfortable.   
  
"You still think me separate?"  
  
Eomer said nothing.  
  
"We are not so different, you and I. Not so different as you would think. Age is of little consequence, physical presence, less so." Legolas turned his gaze to the battleground where the blood was drying below him. "Surely it is the colours of your heart that matter? My heart is black at this time. Black with grief and black with fear…is yours not so?"  
  
"It is." Eomer dared a step closer. The heady scent that was laden in the elf's hair was all that convinced him that this was not some heavenly vision. And yet, as the words penetrated, it was as though the elf were slowly coming into focus. Perhaps he was just flesh and blood…  
  
"I came up here to clear my mind, to ease the ache and to look…just to look at the landscape. Eomer, you did not come up here for the view of me. Look at the land."  
  
Eomer blushed profusely, but did as the elf said. The view from here of hills, fields, mountains skies and clouds was refreshing and cooled his mind as well as his body.  
  
"After such a battle, to understand what it means to be alive is what is important," said Eomer slowly, speaking more to himself.  
  
"Life is precious, Son of Eomund. You understand that. Be it long or short, it is all we have. Everlasting or mortal, it all matters. Do you not see then, how similar we are?"  
  
They were so close now that Eomer fancied he could feel the warmth of his skin. Legolas was suddenly solid before him, beautiful and impossible, but real. He understood the elf's words. Distance was deadly. Union was triumph. If he could just convince himself completely this elf was real…  
  
He reached out a hand…so slowly it was almost painful. The anticipation more than he could bare. His fingers, so crude and ruddy looking in comparison, were now but an inch from the skin of the elf's cheek. The stormy eyes did not flicker.  
  
"You still think me made of stone?" Legolas asked, as the hand paused.  
  
"I am afraid of shattering a beautiful illusion."  
  
"Shatter it, Eomer. For it is but an illusion!" There was such a degree of emotion in the voice that it startled Eomer. Confusion suddenly ran rampant in his brain. It was not within his rights to touch such a creature…he had no right to destroy all the magic and surrealilty that had been built up around him. And yet that was what the elf had been saying, was it not? There was no magic, there should be no distance, for distance between allies is dangerous. Allies? Union is triumph. They both wanted triumph. Perhaps they weren't so different.  
  
Eomer touched Legolas's face. It was with mild awe and a touch of amazement that he ran the sensitive pad of his thumb along the line of a high cheek bone, the velvety and hairless skin utterly smooth, but real, beneath his touch. Something brightened in Legolas's eyes and it was a joy to behold.  
  
But it was still so utterly perfect. Should he be touching this face? He let his hand drop. The spark disappeared from the elf's eyes. He appeared suddenly slightly wounded and slightly angry.  
  
"Am I not allowed to be real, Eomer?" he pleaded. "Am I not allowed to exist for men? Must I always be a foreigner, or a ghost?"  
  
His face in animation was all at once quite disturbing and utterly captivating.   
  
"You must understand, Legolas," Eomer finally raised his voice to the elf. "You cannot expect me to touch you without this doubt and this awe. I am but human! In the face of you, how have you come to expect men to treat you with anything less than reverence? I fear you understand little of the hearts of men."  
  
Legolas turned his back and went to the wall and looked down. There was frustration in the line of his back and the hard set of his shoulders. "I know it is not impossible. One has taught me I am not unattainable. One once told me that I could be loved and not worshipped. Though his love for another is stronger…"  
  
Eomer felt the tiniest spark of jealousy as he followed Legolas's gaze to Aragorn, standing on the Deeping Wall some distance away. Even at this distance, there was a presence and authority that exuded from the man like an aura. He was truly a king among men…  
  
"Not all humans are so exceptional as Aragorn," Eomer stated, his voice flat but sincere. "He is more than human."  
  
"I don't believe so. He just understands beyond what most humans fear of understanding." Legolas looked up again. "He understands that I feel pain, fear, joy and passion as much as men. Some seem to think of us as lifeless as the bark of our trees - "  
  
"Passion?" Eomer interrupted despite himself. "Do elves feel passion?"  
  
Legolas seemed angered by this comment. "Of course we feel passion," he turned on Eomer with such fire in his eyes that he instantly believed the statement and was overwhelmed by it. "Life is passion, death is passion! We have our share of both, despite - "  
  
"Peace, legolas," Eomer stepped close to him again and this time had no hesitation on placing a hand on his lips to still his distress. "Peace. I can see passion in your eyes, though I must confess have been blind to it before. Blinded by…" no words were necessary. The path of his callused fingers along the tender jaw line and around a pointed ear and the look in his eye encapsulated the inescapable awe that he still felt, despite everything, for such perfection.  
  
It was a joy when he felt the elvish hand rub along his own, unshaven cheek. The look in Legolas's eye was one he would have died five times over for. "I must confess I have been a hypocrite." Legolas's voice was a whisper. "Beauty can be daunting. Yours is."  
  
"Mine?" utterly bewildered, Eomer blinked.  
  
Legolas nodded. "Men have their own beauty. So much emotion and so much power they possess…with such a soul as yours…"  
  
"You barely know me."  
  
"I know enough," Emoer was hypnotised by the look in his eyes. "Your hair, your eyes…your scars and your blood. All show you in your honest, passionate beauty, Eomer. They tell stories, they tell of your soul." The elven fingertips left a sweet taste on his lips.  
  
"Ah then, but what of yours, Legolas?" Eomer said in a throaty whisper. He put a hand in the golden hair and the other under the slight chin, tipping the face upwards with the utmost reverence. "As a perfect a part of the earth as frost on leaves, and yet with the living, pulsing beauty of a petal on a flower."  
  
TBC  
  
Author note: Thank you so much! The relevant corrections have been made! 


	2. Chapter 2

Stone Walls  
  
Chapter 2  
  
The blow was the very last thing Eomer was expecting. He lay, dazed, on his back, the wind knocked out of him by the kick delivered to his belly by a powerful, elven foot.  
  
"Come, Eomer," Legolas said, looking down. "Even flowers have thorns."  
  
Eomer got to his feet, amazed, hurt and angry.   
  
Legolas stood straight and tall. "Would you hit me?" he asked in perfect sincerity, "Or am I too high for you to hit?"  
  
Eomer backed away, slowly, dumbfounded. "Hit you?" he breathed.  
  
"Are the hearts of men really as wet and limp as I have been told, then?"  
  
Eomer felt rage at this comment, a rage that swallowed the fear and the estrangement. He ran at the elf, intending to make a grab for his tunic. Legolas anticipated the move and ducked under the blow, his powerful shoulder connecting forcefully with the Rider's solar plexus. Aided by Eomer's momentum but still with a show of strength that was awe-inspiring, Legolas heaved the Rider bodily from the floor and threw him over his shoulder like he was little more than a rag doll. But Eomer was a warrior and instincts kicked in, having erased all thoughts of ration. He managed to take a firm hold on the tough fabric of the elf's tunic as he fell and the elf fell with him.  
  
They hit the roof of the Hornburg in a roll, but Eomer fought for control and ended up on top. Legolas struggled, lunging out with fists as fast and sharp as snake bites,. Eomer either avoided or blocked most of them, but one connected with his temple with dizzying force. Legolas didn't miss his chance. He brought his leg up and purchased another decent foothold on the Prince's stomach. Eomer was pushed him off with such force that he was thrown back onto his feet. He stumbled and nearly fell, but Legolas was on his feet again and Eomer balanced himself to try and meet the challenge of the advancing elf. Legolas's face was totally blank, his eyes were calculating, analysing, thinking as his body went through the motions of the fight seemingly automatically.  
  
Eomer had lost track of all reasoning and questioning as to the purpose of this fight. All he thought about now was fighting back. He advanced.  
  
Legolas lunged, but Eomer managed to duck the blow and kicked the feet out from under the elf. He even fell gracefully, but nearly fell over the barrier. He saved himself by gabbing Eomer. The force of the Elf's fall pulled Eomer over. He hastily grabbed at the wall and hung on. Legolas had a death grip on Eomer's chain mail tunic, though his face was calm and collected. He hung suspended, half hanging off the top of the horn burg.  
  
Eomer tried to pull away and the elf came with his tunic. Legolas took advantage of the power of the pull and reversed their positions. He kept a strong hold on the collar of Eomer's shirt and leant against him. Eomer felt himself hanging over empty space. He vaguely heard the cries of alarm from below and realised people had spotted them fighting.  
  
He pulled the elf's own trick on him, bringing a foot up and pushing the elf away. His own strength surprised him and legolas fell hard.  
  
Eomer hurriedly righted himself. Legolas was getting to his feet. The fall had split the elf's lip and a crimson trail of blood ran down his chin like a river of sin.  
  
But even this did not deter Eomer, especially since he felt bruises on his back, ribs and temple ripening. Legolas seemed unperturbed also for he ran at the Rider. Eomer faced the challenge and they collided and fell.  
  
Eomer rolled himself on top attempted to use his greater weight to force the elf in submission. But he underestimated Legolas's strength again and Legolas pushed off the stone floor with his arm and flipped himself over on top. His grip on the collar of Eomer was like stone ivy.  
  
There was a sudden stillness. Eomer lay on his back, dazed from both pain and wonder. He looked up at Legolas's face, still so calm and emotionless, not apologetic or angry…but still perfect, except for that one, glaring mar of the split lip and spilt blood. The sight hypnotised the man.   
  
He felt the world slowly come back into existence around them. He felt his heavy breathing from the fight and the cold stone beneath his back. He was very aware of the warm and light weight of Legolas's taught body straddling his hips and the way those intense eyes were staring into his own.  
  
Slowly, Eomer sat up. Legolas did not pull back, or free his tunic. Eomer's face progressed until it was scant inches from the elf's. Legolas was still and his clean scent once more enveloped Eomer with its dizzying potency. The Rider brought up his hands and laid them on top of the smooth, cool manacles of flesh that held his collar. The sight and smell of the elf's blood had a most profound affect upon him. As he clasped the hands that were pressed between their torsos, he felt the strong, rhythmic and utterly seductive beat that pulsed against his fingers from behind the elf's clothing.  
  
The red blood against the white skin…  
  
"I understand…" Eomer's voice was barely even a whisper. So real. So alive. So close.  
  
Legolas neither moved or spoke, but something in his eyes emboldened the warrior. So slowly, like time itself was of no consequence, Eomer closed the inches between their faces. The gentlest of gentle touches. His lips barely brushed the delicate skin of the elf's parted lips. The tiniest taste was intoxicating. The world disappeared.  
  
Legolas pulled away so swiftly that it was like a knife being wrenched from a wound. Eomer blinked, startled and then understood as Aragorn's footsteps tapped out a frenzied rhythm on the stone steps and emerged, flushed with confusion and anger. Eomer scrambled to his feet. Legolas stood to the side and regarded the new arrival silently.  
  
"What is this?" Aragorn demanded, face solemn. "What madness possessed ye both?"  
  
"No madness, Aragorn," Legolas said coolly. "'Twas nothing."  
  
Aragorn frowned. "You tell me 'twas nothing when I saw you both myself grappling on the wall and I come up to find Eomer with blackened temple and both your lips bloodied - "  
  
Eomer quailed. He put a finger to his lip and it came away reddened with elvish blood. He was not a cowardly man, but this laid a small kernel of concern in his belly. He was not certain of how Aragorn were to react to this incredibly complicated situation if he divulged the truth.  
  
Legolas had stiffened. A dangerous glint had come into his smoky eyes. Aragorn's words and tone had perhaps been a bit too harsh, a bit too rash. The elf walked up level with Aragorn and said in a low, cold voice, "You of all men, Aragorn, should comprehend when I describe aught as naught, it is no more."  
  
Legolas left without a backward glance. A confused whirl of emotions smoked in Eomer's mind, but he fought for control and pushed them away, slipping on a carefully controlled expression.  
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter 3

Stone Walls  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Aragorn sighed. He was weary with the physical exertion of the battle as well as the emotional drag that weighed upon his heart constantly in this ill-fated time.  
  
"What was here, Eomer?" he asked wearily. "This is a sad time in which we live and we have enemies enough without making them amongst our friends."  
  
"Nay, Aragorn," Eomer stepped up and laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "You should trust your friend Aragorn. Enemies have not been made here. It was…" he pondered a moment, " a test…or a demonstration…"  
  
Aragorn looked up at these words frowning. The Rider's eyes were far away and there was something in the set of his face that Aragorn did not exactly find agreeable. You are being paranoid he told himself. The nights events had tried him sorely. He must try and let the blackness leave him  
  
"I best go make peace with our elven friend," Aragorn said to the warrior. Eomer nodded, a look of sincerity in his eyes that Aragorn could not misjudge. He must not let his heart be overshadowed with doubt when such displays of loyalty and valour had been played out before his very eyes. But still…  
  
Aragorn blinked away these morbid thoughts and turned and went to the top of the staircase, but could not resist looking back once. Eomer did not notice and was rubbing his haired chin, plainly deep in thought. Once again, Aragorn thought he could discern something about his features; not exactly a look of quiet triumph, but almost a look of triumphant revelation as if he had unearthed a great treasure, but had no intention of revealing his findings.  
  
Aragorn looked away and left in the wake of the elf, slightly saddened though he did not grasp why.  
  
"Legolas!"  
  
"Let me be, Dwarf." Legolas was a little too weary to face any more accusations.  
  
"I will not, elf!" Gimli blocked his path. There was little real malice in his tone, just a blustered-over concern. "Tell me if what I hear is true: you have been grappling with Prince Eomer?"  
  
"Ye gods!" legolas exclaimed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Does the whole of Rohan know of my life?"  
  
"Have ya lost yer reasoning completely, laddie?" Gimli asked. "Times are hard and division amongst ourselves is the last thing we require."  
  
"I am in no mood for accusations at this time, dwarf," Legolas was feeling a number of confusing and wearying emotions and the much was hanging heavy on his shoulders. "I would be away from here! Alone out there, rather than lonesome here!"  
  
He stormed away before his friend could divulge any more information from him.  
  
Legolas struggled his way through milling and broken crowds. He broke free of the encompassing stone through the very fissure the orcs created. He had to loose himself, free himself from the constraints. He has never felt so trapped by circumstance before, in all his years on this middle earth. The times were black, moods and actions were blacker.  
  
He heaved a deep breath of the fresher air of the battlefield, though it was wreathed with the stench of orc blood. But the rain had cleansed away much of the foulness and had freshened the air. Legolas let the outside world fill him with his breaths and the sense of emotional claustrophobia eased a trifle.   
  
The sun was rolling away slowly and he new they would not linger among these bloodstained rocks for long. What was the next step on this dusty path? Gondor? More battle, more loss and more men. Ai! how they were able to make his heart ache like no others. They were just enough akin and just enough adverse to his own kind to keep him in a constant, aching confusion.  
  
But now he was alone, at least for this brief moment. Finding a cool, airy spot on the edge a small copse atop a hill, the elven prince settled against a rock to watch the sun spread fiery arms out against the sky. The huge, bright and passionate orb sent its flaming embrace across the cool blue horizon with a violent possessiveness. However, Legolas observed ruefully, though the sky was lit with a becoming flush now, it would ultimately remain unchanged, no matter how many times the sun rolled through it. Such are we…  
  
He was not entirely surprised when he heard Aragorn's approach. 


	4. Chapter 4

Aragon let the silence linger a long while after he had approached. The King of Men simply stood beside Legolas and gazed out to the horizon, wondering the elf's languid, lingering perusal. A tumult was crashing against his soul, but at this time it was not his troubles that concerned him. It was true he regretted his former sharpness towards his life-long friend and comrade; he felt the prick of Legolas's hurts deeper than he acknowledged even to himself.  
  
The silence was so complete and comfortable, despite everything, that Aragorn was loathe to shatter it. He kept his voice soft.   
  
"Forgive me, Legolas," he whispered in the lilting, elven tongue. There was silence again and the sun slowly sank further away from them.  
  
When Aragorn was about to withdraw, saddened by elf's unwillingness to speak, Legolas turned. The King of Men was still shocked at the way the elf's beauty still moved him. The age-old and youthfully perfect face was soft and tender. Legolas's eyes reached out to pull him in and Aragorn felt once again the heart-wrenching sensation of vertigo that he'd been powerless to resist in the past. How could any man have the power to resist this? So deep a blue and so shocking the expression in them. Such a love he saw in those eyes it made him ache for he knew he could never deserve such a love. But against the ache was the warmth sprung from a mutual desire that they had grasped together, long ago. But the warmth still lingered despite time and pain. Aragorn had not pushed away in fear like so many others and it had made Legolas's love the stronger for it. But what they had now, after so much, was something more and yet less than love. An understanding. A comprehension which is shared with little except with one who can never truly leave you alone. Aragon and Legolas between them understood far more about each other's needs and feelings than love could allow. It was a friendship beyond friendship for they knew when to hold tight, but they also knew when to let go.  
  
Aragorn felt the comforting touch of smooth elven fingers against his cheek but let his eyes swim with the ocean in the elf's eyes.  
  
"As you said to me not twelve hours ago, Aragorn," he said. "There is nothing to forgive." He seemed wistful and sad. Aragorn thought he knew too much of the elf's pain. It was knowledge he was not meant to possess. He could not understand how to hold it without bloodying fingers, but he could not bare to cast it aside.  
  
Aragorn still did not understand what it was he had seen on top of the Hornburg and he still was not entirely certain that he was comfortable with it. He remembered the look on Eomer's face…  
  
But Aragorn had had his chance and he could not now pursue privileges he did not have; Legolas had held out his hand to him a long time ago, but all Aragorn had been able to cope with was brushing his lips against the knuckles. He had since taken the hand of another, another who his heart ached for in her absence and in whose company he felt refreshed and glowing with the love they shared. He truly loved Arwen, adored her in every way a man can adore a woman. He knew he was hers forever. But what he and Legolas shared was something that was not confined to the boundaries of forever. It was something more, something above everything. Their friendship was no stronger than the love he had for Arwen but something different, deeper and yet more casual, simple and yet far more complex.   
  
Legolas's eyes were cool but troubled. "If there is any forgiveness required, Aragorn, it is I that should beg it of you. These black times try to bury us alive with darkness and it was selfish of me to vent my anger on you."  
  
"Not at all," Aragorn replied. "Fear weighs in us all Legolas and you must not think it evil to realise your feelings."  
  
Legolas looked him straight in the eye, a curious expression stealing over his face. A confusion that settled into understanding. "You speak the truth Aragorn. You see more of me than I can."  
  
"I know it's hard," said Aragorn, taking the elf's hand where it still lingered on his shoulder and clasped it between his own. "None of us have had to face this sort of danger before. This evil is pulling us in many new directions. I am not certain if I can - "  
  
"If you intend to say that you are not certain if you can cope with these tasks then stay your breath," Legolas said firmly. He pulled his hand out of Aragorn's grasp and put them on the man's shoulders. "Is it the way of all men to doubt the keenness of their mettle when it is enough to draw blood of any who confront it?" His face was so sincere and his voice so grave it surprised Aragorn. "Never doubt your worth in my presence again, Son of Arathorn, or you may find my wrath enough to test it," a smile melted the hardness in his eyes. "But not enough to break it."  
  
Aragorn returned the smile. The sun disappeared and the fiery glare sank to a smoky glow that wrapped them both in lazy warmth.  
  
Smiling again, Legolas turned away to look at the sky again. Aragorn sighed in contentment, reassured of himself. But not of his friend. Clearly earlier troubles where still concerning the elven prince. Though the discussion of the fear of hard times had lessened the sharpness of his private doubts, Legolas was obviously still suffering in trying to handle this very new experience of being afraid.  
  
Aragorn crept up close behind him and wrapped his arms around the elf's waist. He rested his face in the elf's neck and Legolas leant back into the comforting embrace.   
  
"Legolas," Aragorn asked softly. "Would you come to me tonight?" The understanding that bound them tighter than cord gave this suggestion an extra depth that shuddered in their souls with a comforting familiarity. They weren't alone. The suggestion, however, was all that was needed to remind Legolas of this and to comfort him. He politely declined. Aragorn was not offended. He was just offering himself as a way to comfort the elven prince and to make sure he knew without a doubt that he was not alone. Aragorn realised Legolas already knew this and it did, indeed, bring him as much comfort as could be gleaned.  
  
They stood there together until the stars glittered at the last light of the sun had died. They parted having achieved nothing and everything all at once. Aragorn left Legolas on top of the hill to analyse his own new fears. Aragorn knew now there was nothing he could do to help his comrade learn to grasp these new feelings. All he could do was provide a warmth around the coldness. He knew Legolas was grateful for what he did give and neither would do without it.  
  
The stars rolled on over Helm's Deep paying little or no heed to the blood on the stones and the tears in the air. The sky yawned on forever into blackness passing over a million lives and showing no marks from the process. Nothing knew forever like the sky.  
  
TBC 


	5. Chapter 5

Legolas crept his way silently back into the walls of Helm's Deep. Many were sleeping while they could before facing many different and difficult journeys before first light dawned. Shadows were cast around the valley and the stones like forgotten drapery and barely any sound reach the elf's ears. What he know realised was a stronger fear than he had expected had left him confused and worried after his discussion with Aragorn. Whilst gazing at the sky and the stars he had been looking inwards at this blackness that had eaten away at him and now left him hollow. But hollow with a dreadful presence that was threatening to spring forth and burn him again.  
  
But for now he was just weary, feeling something on the borders of despair of a loneliness that even his love of Aragorn could not break away. It was not a loneliness of spirit, he knew his heart was never truly alone because of his love for that man, but this was a sharper isolation, and loneliness of self. He was the only one of his kind to be in this exact kind of experience, within this ring of people that effected him so differently that they effected anyone else. Yes, Aragorn had helped him look at and identify his fear, but it was different to that which the men and even the dwarves that had fought here today were feeling.   
  
Even the other elves that had battled today were isolated from him. The West was calling to them strongly and took away all blackness and dark from their hearts. The call of the West was still a distant murmur to he, he who had been stirred too deeply into this affair to leave before its conclusion. He was even divided from his own kind.  
  
He was truly isolated in the shadows and he knew no one else could understand this, let alone cast light to alleviate this dark.  
  
He came to the edge of the well he had been heading for. He felt parched, truly thirsty for the first time that he could remember. The repeated strenuous motion of drawing a full bucket from the mysterious depths of the well was slightly soothing. He rested the heavy bucket on the well's edge and drank deeply, cupping handfuls of shiny, dark water from the large and leaky pail. Splashing the cold water over his face started to ease the physical sense of weariness that had stolen over him of late. He was so enthralled in listening to the wonderfully distracting sounds of the splashing and trickling of the clean water that he did not hear the approaching footstep. Indeed, again for the first time, he did not realise he had company until a sword blade was pressed against his throat.  
  
"You lay fist to my brother again, elf or no, I will insure you taste the bitterness of mortality."  
  
Legolas stood slowly and calmly. The maiden's blade lifted with him with a cool, steady precision. Silence threaded in the shadows as Legolas looked with wonder into the infinite and fierce depths, sparkling with rage and devoid of fear, of Eowyn's eyes. The Shield Maiden waited for him to speak but Legolas could conceive of no words that would begin to explain what was a complex matter even to himself.  
  
Eomer was parched. He was weary and his muscles ached and his spirit was slung low somewhere within the soles of his boots. He had not been given a moment to think in the last few hours but had been very busy organising a thousand and one tasks that had to be seen to before any further progress on future plans could be attempted. The true, staggering totals of the death toll were starting to roll in and the keening mourning wails had been heard as loudly in the valley as the victory cries. The war was still far from over and this disastrous victory had planted black doubts deep in his mind that festered away like cankers.  
  
He had seen to all most pressing matters and had helped as much as he could before taking a chance to slip away. Once again, he just needed a few minutes of solitude to reflect, to think, to mourn and to attend to his protesting body. He knew of an old well located in the far back regions of the fortress, a place that was all shadow and memories. There he could sip water cooled by the stones of mountains and let his mind rest so that it could rise again to tackle the many-tiered issues and tasks that were awaiting him. 


	6. Chapter 6

Noise faded into silence and torchlight into moonlight. The shadows were so sharp and defined they look as though they might draw blood. He felt calmness steal over him and he breathed the fresh air, pulling back his long hair from his face so that the cool air might ease the heat of stress.  
  
His spirit lifted a little, climbing into the vicinity of his ankles when he came around a corner to the well and upon a sight so extraordinary he thought he must be dreaming.  
  
His sister, always a formidable woman and one for whom he had much admiration, was standing straight and defiant. Her large eyes were wide and accusing as they looked down the length of arm and sword into a face very calm and still with the slightest touch of sadness in the slant of its eyelids. The sight of this creature made again his heart turn a somersault in his chest. The vision of the moonlight sewing silver into his fair hair and eyelashes and they way it polished his skin almost convinced Eomer that he was, in fact, dreaming. But then the elf's eye flicked to him and the moment broke with the movement.  
  
"Sister!" cried Eomer, hurrying forward. Eowyn turned slightly but the blade remained poised. "What goes on? What's the meaning of this?"  
  
"My lord, what has occurred is not an act to be taken lightly, even at the best of times," Eowyn's eyes flashed. "Division is fatal and these times above all others we cannot tolerate those who put us in danger. I have no care as to who he is. He only became my concern when he laid his hands upon you."  
  
Eomer was touched and should really have expected nothing less of his sister. But he could find no words to explain. He looked to Legolas whose expression did not change.   
  
"Lady, I meant no harm to your brother," his voice was cool and flowing. "It grieves me deeply that I may have pained either of you in any way and all I can do is beg for your forgiveness and ask you to accept my promise that no such thing will ever occur again."  
  
Eomer tried desperately to dredge something out of the elf's eyes that indicated that he still felt anything of what they has experience on top of the Hornburg. Eomer still fancied he could taste the wondrous sensation on his lips and it bit deep that maybe it was all for naught. Elves were treacherous, it was said. They know so little of emotion that they cannot help but bruise those who try to break against their rocky façade.  
  
"Give me not stone soaked in honey, elf," Eowyn growled. "You think you are beyond the bite of this blade?"  
  
"Peace, Eowyn," Eomer laid a hand on her arm and gently eased it away from Legolas who did not move but his eyes suddenly seemed to dive into despair. "We are not divided peoples," Eomer breathed, recalling revelations from the tower and still hoping there was honesty behind them. "We must stand united."  
  
"I don't stand with those who seek to harm those with whom they are united," Eowyn said. "Eomer, what was there? Why so accepting?"  
  
Eomer sighed and laid a hand on his sister's shoulder. "You must trust my words, dearest sister. I promise you faithfully that no malice has e'er fallen between we two."  
  
Even if she did not trust his words, she trusted the sincerity in his eyes. She sighed, defeated. "I do not understand, brother, but I trust your judgment," she threw a slightly warmer look at the elvish prince. "Fey folk I will never figure, but I trust my brother's word. However, I will ask no forgiveness. I will stand with my family and my kind, with no discrimination of those who oppose us."  
  
"Eowyn!" Eomer chided.  
  
Legolas bowed. "I admire your spirit lady. In all my years on this Middle Earth I can say with all honesty I have never met another like you."  
  
Eowyn spent a second analysing whether this was a compliment or an insult. But when she allowed herself a deeper look into his face she realise he would never dream of insulting her. She nodded a farewell and left.  
  
They were alone.  
  
Silence can be a vast thing. Eomer believed that every single noise in the world had been quelled at that moment. Whether this bode good or ill he could not be sure.  
  
"Your sister is valiant and true, rider of the mark," Legolas finally spoke. "She is a credit to your people."  
  
"She is indeed," Eomer answered, simply to fill the silence. "A treasure I feel unworthy of possessing."  
  
Legolas looked up, eyes sharp. "So fearful for one so brave, yet again, Eomer."  
  
Eomer bit his lip. He was once more totally immersed in this new, glorious experience of witnessing the elf's passionate switches of mood. For so long he had believed them stony; this torrid of emotion he had been perceiving in the elf was a glorious shattering of such preconceptions. It was not unlike happening upon a gilded and jewelled box only to find that it contained the greatest treasure in the world.  
  
He could not help himself. This time his fear was boundless, but his temptation stronger. Legolas did not move, but the shift in his eyes was clearly evident. Once again, Eomer felt his surroundings and his history and his future melt away to live exposed this one moment and this one feeling. He watched his fingers reach out as though they weren't his. Such a face. He had to touch it, if only to reassure himself once again that it was real. His grazed fingertips ran smoothly across the elven prince's silky cheek and gently took a grip of his jaw. He tipped Legolas's face upward and took another step closer.  
  
"Don't speak now, Legolas," he whispered. "Your voice is too much. I fear my heart would not let me pursue you further if it realised that this is not a dream."  
  
Legolas trembled slightly and there was a sadness mulling his oceanic eyes. "I don't want to be a dream, Eomer," he almost sobbed, the whisper so close it was only a breath above silence.  
  
TBC 


	7. Chapter 7

"Then show me how real you are."  
  
Eomer captured the elf's lips with an urgency that blossomed in his blood like the first fire of the world. His fear started to melt away as though he were being cleansed of it by some mystical elixir. Eomer reached out an spilled himself into the burning and intoxicating whirlpool that was the taste of the elf's flesh. There was the magic of ages wreathed into the texture and taste of Legolas's mouth. But stitched in with the ethereal mists were golden threads of solid, tangible reality. It was as though the light of a star had been captured in a cut glass vial.  
  
The elven prince responded with a tentativeness that was utterly captivating. There was most certainly experience and knowledge in the manner of Legolas's reaction; it was not akin to kissing a blushing, virginal maiden, nor to delivering a hesitant young man his first fire of masculine passion. But nor was it like embracing a practised and worldly lover.   
  
Eomer's passion-misted mind could not draw to thought anything remotely comparable to this sensation. Legolas opened himself slowly to Eomer's ministrations although he were a green leaf uncurling for the sun after many varied summers, still slightly wary of burning. Eomer drank all this in with increasingly heated enthusiasm but still with the tender reassurance of a mother encouraging her child into deeper water for him to truly experience the river.  
  
Eomer was beginning to feel himself being drawn out into unexplored depths. He started to see without his eyes. He was seeing with his breath and with his blood. He was realising the elf through the taste of him, through the feel of his lips, through the sounds of his hitched breathing.   
  
Eomer was suddenly very aware of the manner of Legolas's breathing; deep and sharp, sudden gasps almost, irregular and uneven. It was the breathing of a body being coaxed into the realms of passion. The Prince of Rohan clasped slight frame to him and let his embrace explore the shifts and ebbs of movement in elven prince's muscles, each frictional interchange sending a charge through his own bloodstream. Without his eyes he saw the elf unfolding as a living, breathing and passionate creature.  
  
The thought that it was he that was impelling this creature into these albeit hesitant preliminary ripples of heat was almost enough to drive him off an edge he never realised existed. Emboldened, he deepened his kiss, inhaling intensely the delicate, complex and magical scents of Legolas's hair and skin. Legolas's lithe and potentially lethal arms wrapped around his neck and he felt the cool and subtle tendrils of the elf's fingers weaving themselves into his unruly hair. He allowed his own fingertips to glide up the compelling curve of the elf's back and to brush the secret and tender skin across the back of his neck. He started to feel the mounting insistency of his own body being mirrored in tighter clasp of the elf's arms and the more fervent manner of his kiss.  
  
So sudden that it was paralysing, the ice of doubt cruelly gripped Eomer's gut. He froze, opening his eyes, causing the visual world to suddenly slam concrete reality around him with a crash. Legolas felt the stillness and pulled away. His eyes were awash with conflict, the depths ebbing and flowing with confusion, their keenness dulled with the unruly paths of the neglected fervour.  
  
Eomer looked deep into the sea-like eddies of the elf's eyes and was daunted by their depth. Perhaps this was too deep for him, even after all that had happened. He felt Legolas's embrace loosen and saw pain prickling darkly at the edges of his eyes. The elf drew a breath to speak.  
  
No, he had come too far, Eomer decided. He already felt as if the ineffective organs of his eyes had been far outstripped in their purpose by his heart. He could now see and feel so much more. Mayhap he was capable of embracing this experience without acquiring wounds.  
  
Either way, the sight of their mingled saliva gleaming on the elf's lips in the moonlight was enough to drive any red-blooded person to distraction. He silenced Legolas's utterance before it was formed with such a powerful and communicative kiss that it drew the smallest of sounds from deep within the elf's throat. It was as powerful a call to Eomer's instincts as were the ivory horns of battle. He pulled his mouth from Legolas's in order to investigate the tastes of the elf's jaw. The skin was smooth and cool though with a heat pulsing far within, like a drum beating in the heart of an airy forest. He found the smooth well of flesh in Legolas's neck that swelled with his breath and rang with his pulse. The elf tipped his head back as Eomer caressed the sensitive area with his lips and tongue. He murmured something in his lilting elvish tongue, his voice husky and breathy and although Eomer did not know the words, he felt he understood the manner of the sounds.  
  
His own urgency was deepening redly. One hand still cradled the back of Legolas's neck, lost in a web of golden silk. With his other hand he pressed him closer, his body seeking and bleeding heat. His determined mouth explored further, hungry for all it could get. His teeth grazed along the prince's jaw and then his lips brushed against the enticing contours of Legolas's ear. The elf's breath was warm against his own neck, rapid and insistent. Legolas dug the fingers of one hand deeper into the tangle of Eomer's hair and Eomer felt the prince's other hand sliding fluidly into the collar of his shirt, simultaneously cooling and heating his skin.  
  
His ministrations to the elf's delicately pointed ear was producing the most delightful reactions from the elf's body.   
  
"Eomer,"  
  
The sound of his name whispered in such a manner almost stripped him of all semblance of rationality. The resulting renewal of attention to the elf's skin rendered the fey prince speechless for a moment but for the breathy catch in his throat.  
  
"Eomer," he managed to continue, but with pauses and seemingly much concentration. "Rider of Rohan, I must have your word…your word of honour that you shall not abandon me now."  
  
Eomer brought up a hand and gently fingered the edges of the elf's face with his roughened fingertips, gently brushing his other ear. "Abandon you, my prince?"  
  
Legolas's breath shuddered at Eomer's fingertips tentative exploration. His own fingers on Eomer's skin grasped tighter. He felt the ancient being draw upon crumbling strengths in order to master his voice. "I am still half afraid that you will once again grapple with the edges of doubt and flee from me, leaving me cold in the dark." 


	8. Chapter 8

Eomer paused for the barest second but did not relinquish his grip. For two moments there was no sound but their breath shuddering into the night. Eomer suddenly felt a sincerity and a determination of which at that moment there could never be a doubt.   
  
"Legolas," he whispered directly into his ear. "I can think of no words that can tell you of what I am feeling at this time, but I can say with total certainty that there is no force upon Middle Earth that would make me want to part from you at this moment."  
  
There was another pregnant pause in time and reality. Legolas pulled his head back so that he could look into Eomer's face. Eomer saw something that made his heart seemingly glow with the warmth of the summer sun. A smile was upon the beautiful and ageless lips of the Prince of Mirkwood. Eomer felt a smile of his own creep across his face. He was sure it looked clumsy and cumbersome in comparison but it felt wonderful. And then Legolas's lips were once more upon his and speech was no longer needed for communication. Legolas's wiry body pressed full length against his, strength and warmth with the barest suggestion of dreams breathed into the embrace.  
  
Eomer tilted his head in order to get a better purchase on the elf's delicious mouth but Legolas pulled his lips away. Eomer bemoaned the loss but soon forgot as he felt the selfsame mouth brush along his chin. With a tenderness and a insistent heat Legolas kissed at the responsive skin of Eomer's neck. One deft hand worked at the ties of Eomer's collar whilst the other ran over the knotted and tense muscles in the warrior's back. Eomer felt his own breathing catch and was sure his flesh was melting in the heat. He fought for control at the wondrous sensation of the elf's mouth and hands upon him. He felt Legolas getting insistent, trying, rather successfully, to reduce Eomer to senselessness.   
  
With a mischievous smile Eomer leant forward once more. Whilst he a let a hand wander over the smoothness of the elf's clothed body he tilted his head and gently took alluring top of the elf's pointed ear into his mouth. Legolas all but collapsed into him. There was no mistaking the choked whimper that gasped in Legolas's throat. The elf's hands froze upon him. Eomer caressed at the skin with his tongue with a greater urgency whilst working his hands up between their bodies. He could feel both their heartbeats hammering against his fingers. Without ceasing his pursuit of the Elf's ear he found the delicate but complex fastening of Legolas's tunic. Legolas didn't seem to notice as Eomer dexterously worked away the constraining ties. With tremendous anticipation, he pushed the soft fabric off the elf's right shoulder. He let his fingers brush this new, exciting exposure. His head was spinning with the scent of millennia-old forests and the taste of honey and earth that seemed to be abundant in the elf's skin.   
  
He left Legolas's ear. He felt Legolas shiver, as if cold from the sudden loss of contact. He held the elf closer and slowly bent to brush his lips along the elf's collarbone. The texture of the strong flesh and bone all bound in the ethereal skin was unlike anything Eomer had ever experienced before. He was not a naive man in the ways of love, with women or men, but he could honestly declare to himself that this experience stood upon it own as nothing like and something more than other such seemingly hurried and meaningless events.   
  
"Such heat, Eomer," Legolas breathed. "There is such heat in your touch."  
  
Eomer smiled against the skin whilst slowly working the elf's other shoulder free of his clothing. "You found my blood as tinder wood, my Prince," he murmured, his voice finding fuel from the multitude of sensations coursing through him. "And you've sparked the keenest fire along my veins." His words emboldened him further. He slipped a hand into Legolas's tunic. The elf gasped slightly and murmured something breathy in elvish and Eomer felt his heart jolt with excitement for it sounded almost like a prayer.   
  
His hands marvelled at the texture of the cool flesh and the pure sylphlike movement of the elven body that had previously been secreted away behind layers of fabric. The elf pulled Eomer's head up for another searing and unearthly kiss. The Rider of Rohan felt his body flare anew.   
  
He finally freed the fey prince's torso from his tunic and it fell to the ground, forgotten and superfluous as an autumn leaf. Eomer felt he would never tire of the feel of this creature's skin. He gently ran his admiring hand down the smooth contours of Legolas's back, completely flawless and without blemish, cool with age, toned with a warrior's prowess. The combination of power and vulnerability that was conveyed in the feel of the prince's naked back was overwhelming Eomer's senses. He traced his hand forward over the sensitive area across the elf's side only to sigh into their still fervent kiss as he felt his palm drift over the perfect chest and stomach. Eomer never believed that such a beauty could be contained within the physical world.   
  
But he found he still wanted more. He pressed the elf close to him and would not let his hands break contact with skin. He deepened their kiss still further and found Legolas responding to his urgency. All thought of reason were swiftly fleeing Theodon's nephew as he found himself slipping his right hand into the waistband of Legolas, Elf Prince of Mirkwood's breeches.  
  
Legolas gasped, breaking their kiss. "You would seek to undo me,"  
  
"I would seek to know you, Legolas," Eomer murmured, sincerity lapping at his soul. "All of you," he pulled back a moment to look Legolas directly in the eyes. "As a lover would."  
  
Legolas's breathing was heavy. His eyes were deeper than ever, dark and mysterious but burning with life. "You would know me, Eomer? You truly wish to shatter all illusions forever and discover me for what I am?"  
  
Eomer nodded.  
  
Eomer felt the stones around held their breath in the silence. But then, slowly, a honey smile spread across Legolas's face once more. He said no words. They were no longer needed, unnecessary, forgotten, ashes on the west wind. Their mouths met as the ocean and the land, natural, insistent, powerful.  
  
Legolas's hands were deft and strong. Eomer felt them burn a trail across his back, down to his waist. They took a gentle and insistent grip on the Rider's tunic. Eomer was loath to break the heated and delicious contact with the elfin mouth but pulled away momentarily so that Legolas might pull his tunic up over his head. The prince did so slowly, reverently.   
  
There was a pause like a spirit's sigh as Legolas's eyes slowly and darkly took in the Rider's torso, the shirt lying forgotten in his slender fingers. Eomer could not tell what was happening in this moment, only that it was important, glorious. He felt his heart weeping with joy as watched Legolas drinking in his body with his eyes.  
  
Legolas laid a hand on Eomer's chest, tracing the scars with wonderment. Eomer gasped slightly at the touch. The skin against skin felt so good that it was all he could do not to clasp the elf to him, tight, fiery, and never let go. Legolas met his eyes and there was awe in them. He leant and kissed with the utmost tenderness a ragged, pale scar that slashed across Eomer's chest. Eomer closed his eyes and the world was swirling behind them.  
  
Legolas's fingers stroked at ever scar and mark on Eomer's exposed flesh, the cool and smooth fingertips worshipping each angry reminder of an old wound.   
  
"Such beauty," Legolas whispered against his skin.  
  
All reason and rationality had fled Eomer and his need was burning him alive inside. Every second he did not have his hands against that flawless, elvish skin was a second he felt growing colder. He took Legolas's chin in his hand and pulled his face up. He captured the Prince's lips with such a needy passion that Legolas mewled slightly deep in his throat. The sound of it almost tipped Eomer over the edge of a glittering cliff, into a stormy sea. He wanted to hear it again.  
  
Gently, easily and with movements that seem to be born from the very nature of his flesh, Eomer lowered himself onto soft, gentle grassy patch next to the cool stone of the well. He brought Legolas with him, holding him with a kiss. Legolas seemed to float down beside him, like the smoke from a candle.  
  
Eomer felt the slow fire grow hotter as he pressed himself to that lithe, flawless chest. He found he could not break the contact of the kiss even if he had wanted to. The elf's mouth was intoxicating, alive. He felt that his eyes were useless now. His hands read everything, feeling the elf's breathing, fast and deep. The smell of his hair, skin and heat made his head swim with a golden fog.  
  
How could he have ever feared this creature? This warm, beautiful, tender and passionate being, all blazing flame and cooling water. He could not imagine any time that he was not like this, arms around this Prince, their mouths alive with the taste of each other.  
  
But it was still not enough. 


End file.
